


What Dreams May Come

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Clint and Phil (MCU Avengers Universe) [28]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Growing Old Together, M/M, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 18:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: When the phone that should never ring rings, Phil and Clint deal with the end of one era and the beginning of another.  Oh, and there's  something Phil's father forgot to tell him. Okay, two things. Maybe three.





	What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe this is the 28th installment of this series. What started with a bottle of vodka and a moment of Coulson Lives! weakness has been going for five years. My boys got themselves together, dealt with a vengenceful ex, got married, adpoted two beautiful children who turned out to be mutants, and bought a house. New heroes have joined the Avengers, kids have been born, and the world has been saved a few dozen times. 
> 
> Mostly, I'm damn proud to prove the conventional wisdom wrong; happily married does not mean there's no story left to be told. If anything, the loving couple at the center allows me to spin out into all sorts of external issues and threats. Screw you, Hollywood ... there's a lot more of these two heroes to write about and they're going to stay together. 
> 
> If you haven't read all the other stories in this series, here's a few things you need to know. Bella and Josh are the biological kids of Caroline Coulson, Phi's niece who died. They come to live with the boys in "No Regrets." Glen Talbot appears in Agents of SHIELD, but I'm drawing on the comicbook version. This is the first time we've seen Phil's sister Pauline.

Thing about getting old was, it happened to everyone. No excuses, no miracles, no pills to pop … bones grew brittle, knees ached, arthritis seeped into knuckles, and hair turned grey. Oh, people did what they could to stave off the inevitable -- dyes, diets, spin class, fish oil -- but the human body had an expiration date. All they could do was put it off awhile. The bigger question, if you asked one Clint Barton, human among the bioengineered heroes, was whether all the ways to last another day or week or year were worth it. He’d had a knee replacement, pins in his hip, took four pills a day plus all kinds of vitamins, used the best hearing aids Tony Stark could devise, and had lost count of how many bones he’d broken. But when his back went out during a battle with Elves (yes, from Alfheim), he’d drawn the line at an experimental procedure that gave him a 60/40 chance of increased spinal mobility. With possible outcomes like paralysis and frozen vertebrae, Clint decided on the slow route of recuperation; he took a six month leave from the Avengers to focus on physical therapy and being around to watch the kids grow up. Oh, he still hit the range, sparred with Natasha who tailored her moves to his recovery stage, and ran a couple miles every day because, well, if a world-ending situation came up … and they seemed to with regularity these days … he’d be ready to do his part. Considering how graciously Phil handled his shift from field agent to Avengers liaison after Loki, Clint could do no less..

Turns out, Clint loved being a stay-at-home papa. He took to school drop off and pick up duty like a duck to water, arranged playdates, became the top selling parent for fundraisers (Steve and Bruce could always be counted on to buy any food items in bulk), learned to cook more than chili and tacos, knew the name of all the kids, parents, and dogs at the local park, and started an archery club at the local YMCA. Much to Tony’s surprise, Pepper deemed Clint the first line emergency babysitter for little Martin; Josh adored the toddler and the only place safer than the Tower was the Coulson house with its magical warding, kick-ass nanny Maggie, and resident sharp shooter. If Phil found domestic Clint sexy as hell, well, Clint went with it, a French maid apron in his drawer.

Not everyone accepted the inevitable ticking of death’s clock. Some fought to their bitter end, and bitter it would be.

“Excuse me, sir,” Jarvis said. “But there’s an incoming call to the number Agent Coulson asked me to monitor.”

Clint lowered his bow and let the arrow slip away from the string. “The one that should never ring?”

“Indeed. Would you like to answer it or shall I sent it to voicemail?”

Walking over to the weapon cabinet, Clint said, “Put it through, J.”

“Hello?”

The voice echoed in the range; Clint grabbed a rag and started wiping down the metal components.

“Hello.”

“I’m looking for Philip J. Coulson; this is the most recent number I have.”

“This is Phil’s phone; he’s busy at the moment. May I take a message.”

Something about the second of silence made the hairs stand up on the back of Clint’s neck. He might not have Peter’s spider sense, but he hadn’t made it this long without trusting his instincts. The next words were going to be bad.

“This is Gerald Smollman from Smollman, Smollman, and Stultz. I’m checking on Mr. Coulson’s RSVP for the reading of the will this Sunday; please give him my number and …”

“Whoa, whoa. Will? What will? Whose will? We don’t know anything about a will.” Clint interrupted.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can only share details with Mr. Coulson or a recipient of a bequest,” Smollman answered. “If I can leave my number …”

“I’m Phil’s husband; you can tell me. Who died?” Clint demanded.

Papers shuffled and the man coughed before he asked, “Are you Clinton Francis Barton?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, then, Mr. Barton, you’re also named in the will so I can tell you that General Coulson passed away last week,” Smollman said. “As per his wishes, there will be a …”

“Wait.” Clint struggled to process the information, the words dripping slowly into his brain. “The General? You’re calling about …”

“I’m sorry about the confusion; I assumed you knew. The executor was to notify you of the legal proceedings.” Smollman cleared his throat. “General Coulson died after a short, but very intense battle with throat cancer. It was already stage four when they discovered it.”

“I see.” Clint couldn’t think of what to say next.

“Let me offer my deepest condolences and apologize for the abrupt notification,” Smollman said.

“Yeah, um, thanks.” Clint pulled himself together as the full import of the news hit him. “I’m in the General’s will? I never even met the man; he hated me purely on principle.”

“Ah, well, be that as it may, there is a bequest noted for you, Philip, and also your two children.”

“What the fuck?” Startled, the words were out of his mouth before Clint could think it. “The kids? This has to be a joke.”

“It is not, I assure you. The reading is Saturday, after the wake.”

“This Saturday? As in two days from now?” Clint was starting to get angry. “And I guess it’s in Singapore or somewhere, right? Like we can just up and fly halfway across the world in a day.”

“It’s at 3 p.m. in Martha’s Vineyards at the General’s summer home.” The lawyer sighed. “Mr. Barton, I realize this is last minute, but it would be in yours and your family’s best interest to attend. While I can’t tell you what’s in the General’s will, I do believe it will be worth the inconvenience to make the short trip. Please call me at this number if you need any further information.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Clint wrote down the number, hung up, then stared at his bow, his fingers curling around the curve. He’d never met Phil’s father and, honestly, knew very little about him except he had cut Phil out of his life after Phil came out and didn’t follow his father’s plan for his life. Oh, and the man had turned his back on two amazing little kids because they didn’t meet his standards to be a Coulson. Clint had looked him up once with Jarvis’ help, just long enough to read about his military career and work with defense contractors. Stern was a word used often in descriptions along with ram-rod and steel. He’d never accepted an ex-carnie merc as a son-in-law, and Clint was damn glad he’d never have to meet the man face-to-face; he’d have given the General an earful if they had.

Hesitating, Clint knew he was spinning time, not wanting to make the decision of how to tell Phil. There was still over 40 minutes until he had to leave to pick up the kids from school; he really had no excuse not to make the call now. Phil was knee deep in expansion plans for the new West Coast office of the Avengers and due to be in conference calls all afternoon. Still, they had to make a decision about what to do, whether they made travel plans or ignored the whole situation. The sooner, the better.

He sent Phil a text with a string of numbers and letters, their own personal code they’d developed over the year. Call home ASAP, it told Phil. All fine on our part; external issue. It took exactly 176 seconds before the phone rang.

“Hey,” Clint answered. “You know that number you said no one would every call? Well, someone just did.”

A beat of silence then Clint heard a door closing before Phil replied.

“The General or Pauline?”

“A lawyer.” He took a breath and plunged in. “The General passed away last Sunday.”

More silence. A creak of springs and rustle of fabric followed by a long sigh.

“Which lawyer? Smollman or Stultz?”

“Gerard Smollman.”

“Gerry? Guess his father finally retired. He’s your age, I believe.” Phil sounded tired. “Surprised he even called. Last I heard, I was on the blacklist for information.”

“Yeah, well, there’s more,” Clint warned. “You’re in the will. Me and the kids too. The reading is Saturday. This Saturday. In Martha’s Vineyard. After the service.”

This time the quiet unspooled so long Clint started to worry. Only his faith in his husband’s ability to handle anything kept him from babbling on.

“I’m torn between believing it’s one last way to fuck up my life from the grave,” Phil eventually said. “Or it’s his way of thinking he can make amends without actually doing anything to change.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “Both are equally plausible. But why the kids? Who would that serve?”

“Oh, that’s classic General Coulson tactics.” A twisted chuckle. “That’s to piss off Pauline; he probably left his estate to them or something because he knew she was expecting to get it all.”

“I thought she was the one who toed the line?”

“There’s no one who can toe the General’s line. He constantly moves … moved … the goal posts on us.” Phil huffed. “It’ll teach her a lesson, make her stronger. Adversity builds character.”

Clint didn’t know what to say. His father had preferred his fists and brute power; Phil’s had gone with words and abandonment. Didn’t matter. Abuse was abuse.

“God. I really don’t want to deal with this right now. I’ve got a conference call on hold with Moon Knight and Tigra; they’ve found a location but we need to move on it right away. Ben Grimm might be interested if I can get him on the phone in the next day or two before Reed guilts him into to staying in New York. Of course, the General would pick the worst time to …” A soft intake of breath. “Look, I’ve got to finish this call. Steve’s running around here somewhere; I’ll put him on Grimm. Do me a favor; call the lawyer and get him in contact with Smollman; maybe he can find out more details. Might take me a bit, but I’ll head home as soon as I can.”

“I’ll come get you.” Clint kept talking when Phil tried to interrupt. “No if, and, or buts. Bella’s got soccer practice and Josh has ballet; they’re good until five and Maggie can pick them up.”

“I am perfectly capable of getting home all by myself,” Phil protested.

“I know that. I want to be with you, okay?” Clint replied.

“I love you,” Phil said.

“Yeah, you tell me often enough I’m starting to believe it. Now go tell that Jarhead Spector I said hi.”

~~++~~

Clint tugged his sleeves down, evening the cuff of his dress shirt to leave an inch below his jacket. The suit fit perfectly, a tailored bespoke charcoal grey with the tiniest of lilac pinstripes. Every curve and seam had been specifically fitted to his body, the dark purple shirt tucked in at his waist but wide enough for his shoulders. His collar didn’t choke him and his tie hung in a windsor knot, smooth silk bisected by black and grey stripes. The whole outfit had been a gift from Tony for the members of his wedding party, and Clint thought Phil looked damn sexy in his dark blue with grey pinstripe version.

Deciding to make the trip had been tough on Phil. Clint understood the gut response to not go, to ignore whatever machination the General’s will would set in motion. If their positions were reversed, Clint probably would have opted to fly to Vegas and take the kids to Cirque du Soleil or a magic show, maybe hit up the Grand Canyon. But he also agreed that not going would mean regrets, more of the kind Phil was already living with, what ifs and what might have beens that could choke a man.

So here they were, clothed in old money suits that made a statement to everyone who watched them walk up the front path. Even Maggie was in a Brooks Brothers’ navy blue pant suit, white and grey scarf and a matching Kate Spade carryall bag. Josh’s simple khaki pants, button up and blue jacket were from Pepper’s favorite kids’ store while Bella wore the outfit Auntie Nat had brought her from Italy, a designer dress that had a floaty hem and was probably one-of-a-kind. Tac suits, Phil had said. For the army they were about to face, dressing well was the equivalent of wearing armor.

Weathered clapboards covered the sides of the house, steps leading up to the large front porch. The Dutch Colonial complete with angled dormers and white columns stood back from the road, hidden among the trees. A moderate size -- larger than the colorful Victorians in town, but smaller than the celebrity compounds on the ocean -- Clint had imagined something much more palatial. Through a door off the entryway, he could see wood paneling; the curved staircase, gleaming with polish, was dark wood, probably original to the home.

“Phil?”

A man about Phil’s age separated himself from the suddenly silent crowd; the whispering began before he could close the short distance to where they stood.

“Glenn.” Phil shook the man’s hand. “Clint, this is General Talbot. You remember …”

“Tora Bora.” Clint nodded. “I was in a wadi the whole time, didn’t get to meet face-to-face.”

“Actually, I was at the U.N. four years later, in the Security Council room,” Glenn said. “Doubt you even noticed me.”

“I was a little distracted,” Clint replied. He’d been too busy shooting alien squid monsters.

“Phil!” A brunette joined them; she threw her arms around Phil and hugged him tight. “It’s so good to see you. Oh and you brought the kids.” Squatting down she offered Bella her hand. “Hello, I’m Betty, an old friend of your father. You must be Josh.”

“No, I’m Bella,” she answered with a giggle. “He’s Josh.”

“Of course.” Betty shook both of their hands then stood up. “And you must be Clint. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Don’t believe any of it.” Clint shook her hand as Josh grabbed onto his leg and hid his face.

“Well, Bruce speaks highly of you, so that means a lot.” She laughed at Clint’s confusion. “I may be Betty Talbot now, but I used to be Betty Ross.”

“Oh.” Clint’s eyes widened. “Betty Ross, daughter of …”

“Coulson.” Thunderbolt Thaddeus Ross filled all the available space. “Damn good thing you’ve done today; takes a big man to overlook other men’s flaws.”

“Would you like some punch?” Betty looked at Bella. “There’s some little cakes that need eating.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Maggie reached out a hand to Josh; he untangled himself from Clint at the mention of sweets. “Maybe a treat is in order.”

“Nice looking kids,” Ross said, herding them into a smaller room that had obviously been a study. “You’re doing right by them.”

“Better than them going into the system,” Phil replied.

“Look, I know we don’t see eye-to-eye on much …”

“On anything,” Phil inserted.

Ross huffed but continued. “I just want you to know that I tried to get the Wolf to change his mind before it was too late. Damn stubborn fool could never admit he was wrong. Hell, I’d probably be the same way if it wasn’t for that heart attack I had a last year. Life’s too short to hold onto anger.”

“So you’ve given up on your hunt for the Hulk?” Clint had to ask. He’d heard too many stories about Ross’s obsession with Bruce’s other self.

“There are better ways to protect the people I love than tanks and guns,” Ross admitted. “Not saying he’s not a danger, but maybe I went about it the wrong way.”

Clint opened his mouth to say hell must be freezing over, caught himself, then shut it again. Wrong time for that phrase. Who said he hadn’t grown up?

“That’s magnanimous of you.” Phil was much better at subtle comebacks even when his emotions were compromised.

Ross slapped Phil on the shoulder; Phil didn’t budge, not even a slight sway.

“Just glad you’re here. Always knew you were one of the good ones.”

After Ross left the room, Talbot said, “For what it’s worth, he really is trying to do better; he agreed Betty could work with Banner, albeit online and not in person. Small steps, eh?”

“Philip.”

Clint had been in blizzards, waiting hours for a shot, fingers and toes numb and ears filled with ice. He’d felt the absolute zero of Loki’s spell, been frozen in his own body, unable to feel a tiny flicker of heat. And yet, that one word was the coldest he’d ever heard, a prick of a tiny blade, an icicle aimed at the heart.

“Pauline.”

She was Phil’s height, the same brown hair, same Coulson eyes. The tilt of her head, the raise of an eyebrow, the almost silent sigh … there was no mistaking the family resemblance. But where Phil was muscle and strength, tight sinew and loose limbs, Pauline was angles and sharp edges, gaunt cheeks and thin fingers. Shoulder pads couldn’t hide the bony ridges, the tailored lines of her suit skimming over a too slim frame.

“Gotta go.” Talbot beat a hasty retreat, nodding to them all as he slipped out of the study. Clint settled his stance, put on his resting face, and thought about Natasha tearing through the tissue paper woman in front of him. A corner of his lip turned up at the image; Pauline blinked twice when she saw it.

“I suppose those are your children in the dining room with Elizabeth Ross.” She made no move to enter the rest of the way.

You mean your grandchildren, Clint thought, allowing a tiny hint of disdain to show. The ones you abandoned to the system, bitch.

“They are.”

Phil once made a drug lord cry simply by standing and answering every question with one and two words. His stare was legend around SHIELD and those who found themselves on the other side of his displeasure told wild tales about seeing hell fires burning. Pauline rocked back, just a bit, at the very first sign of it.

“I see.”

Silence unspooled. Clint didn’t so much as twitch, his solid body a wall behind Phil’s own strength.

“You’re here for the reading of the will.”

“We are.”

Wrinkles appeared on her brow; every tell screamed of her unhappiness with the way this was going.

“Well, don’t let those children run wild. This is a funeral; I expect some gravitas for the situation. Children should be seen, not heard.”

With that parting shot, she turned and walked off, the tapping of her heels on the wood floor brittle and sharp. Phil barely raised an eyebrow; Clint responded with a small huff. Years of working undercover together and they didn’t need words. Just like any other mission, they stayed in character, outwardly unfazed and calm despite Pauline’s provocation. Inside, Clint was seething at her casual dismissal of the kids, her blatant disregard for her own grandchildren. He and Phil were adults … they could handle all the attitude she could throw … but Bella and Josh were off-limits. It was his job to protect them and Clint was damn well going to do it.

“Papa, sea bugs!” Bella’s smile was wide as she held the shrimp by its tail. Beside her, Maggie held a small delicate bone china plate piled with pickings from the buffet. Josh’s fingers were stained red from a strawberry.

“Indeed.” When she offered the bite, he leaned over and ate it, leaving the tail. Giggling, she dropped it on the plate.

They’d arrived late on purpose; after only thirty minutes of hushed whispers and pointed stares, guests began to leave. A few spoke to Phil directly, some people he knew from the military, a cousin, and a couple who used to work for the General, but on the whole, the hostility aimed their way made the hackles on Clint’s neck rise. The kids, picking upon the tension, were on their best behavior, staying close and saying little. Josh retreated into silence, not even humming as he hovered behind Clint, hidden from view. Bella glued herself to Phil, her only words a thank you when someone complimented her dress. Every time Pauline passed, trying, but failing, to pin them with a scathing gaze, the kids retreated further and further into themselves.

“We’re ready.” Gerald Smollman said, standing in the doorway to the parlor. He’d made a point to introduce himself earlier and explain that the kids didn’t need to sit through the reading; being present in the house was enough. “If you’d take your places, we can begin.”

Clint scoped the layout of chairs and pick the most defensible, two in the last row with their backs to the corner, clear sight lines to the windows and door. The others … and there were more than he expected shuffling in … filled in the rest of the spaces. When Ross entered, he nodded and took the seat in front of them.

“Thank you all for coming today,” Smollman began. “I know this is a difficult time but the General was very specific about how he wished this to go.” Someone chuckled. “As directed, he wished to begin with small bequests, so we’ll jump straight in.”

A list of names were called, one-by-one, each receiving some small token. The current gardener, the son of the man who’d worked for the Coulsons for years, was given permission to dig up some roses, lilies and other flowers his father had originally planted. The nurse who’d stayed with the General to the end was given a painting she’d admired. When his turn came up, Ross blinked back tears as he took the battered tin mug and bottle of scotch.

“Damn fool,” Ross muttered, fingers brushing over the dents. “Kept it all these years.”

Once that was finished, Smollman dismissed them and began the next section. These were larger gifts. A sizeable donation to the American Cancer Society in his wife’s name. The title to a boat for the General’s fishing buddy. Artwork for the Maritime Museum in D.C. A scholarship fund for a niece and a Senator's appointment to West Point for a nephew. When they left, only Pauline and her husband remained besides Phil and Clint.

Closing the door firmly, Smollman leaned against the small writing desk. “I’m going to read this part directly from the General’s prepared statement. Understand that he made these decisions while in both sound mind and body.”

“He’s going to screw us over,” Pauline’s husband said, voice loaded with venom. “I knew it.”

“Cyril.” Pauline spoke only his name and the man subsided. “Proceed.”

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Yes, well ... “ He shuffled some papers. “Death, they say, offers clarity; for me, I have always known my shortcomings. I was not an ideal father; what makes a good general is the opposite of what a child needs. I counted on your mother to fill in the gaps, smooth my rough edges. I won’t apologize for doing the best I could after she died. I made mistakes, true, but you both are successful, safe, and settled. If I wished for different outcomes, well, that’s a father’s prerogative.”

Clint glanced at Phil; he flipped his hand so his palm was up and laid it on his thigh. Phil’s fingers closed around his and Clint squeezed.

“Philip.” Smollman turned their way. “I have followed your career, watched you make your way in the world, seen you rise to the occasion and become indispensable to the safety of this nation. When you quit the Army to follow Marcus Johnson’s crusade, I was sure you were throwing away your potential. I was wrong. What you have become has surpassed any dream I had for you. I am proud of the place you hold in history, my son.”

Phil blinked. He tightened his hold on Clint’s hand and let out a breath.

“What I leave you is what should have been yours all along. You’ll know what to do with it, that I’m sure of.”

The beige envelope the lawyer handed Phil was slim with a heavy wax seal on the back, his name written in careful block letters.

“To Clinton Francis Barton.”

Clint tilted his head slightly but otherwise stayed still.

“I offer my thanks for having my son’s back and saving his life any number of times. While I go to my grave believing your perversion is an unforgivable sin, one that I will never condone, I can admire the man my son chooses to love, one who pulled himself from the squalor of his upbringing. I give you this; may it help you keep your family safe in the future.”

The box was no more than 3 inch square and taped closed. His fingers closed over the smooth wood as he took it from the lawyer, releasing Phil’s hand long enough to tuck it into his jacket pocket. His murder face firmly in place, Clint gave the barest nod in response. The word ‘perversion’ was burning in his gut, churning up all kinds of angry feelings that he wanted no one else to see.

“To Bella Courtney Coulson and Joshua Manuel Coulson I fulfill a promise made long ago to my beloved Samantha to pass along the Morgan hope chest. Her mother gave it to her and she would have given it to Caroline had both of them lived. Now it becomes their heritage with the caveat that they continue the tradition by adding to it and seeing it goes on to their children or children’s children.”

Made of cedar, the chest had carved inlays along its curved top and a big brass lock on the front. Smollman handed Phil a matching key.

“Now, to my daughter Pauline.”

No scruples about it, Clint turned his sniper stare at Phil’s sister.

“You have always done everything I asked of you, and I am beyond grateful to you for your loyalty and especially your care during my illness. For that I wish to right a wrong I did you many years ago by telling you the truth.” Smollman paused then took a breath before continuing. “Gino didn’t take the money I offered him. Much to my surprise, he turned me down each time I tried, declaring his love for you.”

A gasp and Pauline’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Only a threat to his immigration status made him leave; I took the note he left you and screened the mail for letters so you wouldn’t know. I believed, and still do, that the marriage would have been a mistake; child or not, you were from two different worlds. Eventually, breeding would have won out.”

“God,” Phil murmured. “Son-of-a-bitch.”

Pauline bowed her head, hiding her face in her hands.

“Gino? That grimy wop who cleaned the pools? That’s Carolyn’s father?” Pauline’s husband barked out a harsh laugh. “You polluted the Coulson name with the blood of a common greaser.”  
The words sparked Clint’s anger; he balled up his fists and turned his most murderous stare on the man. BEside him, Phil added his gaze, the one that quelled Victor Von Doom and Namor.

“Jesus, you people are a piece of work,” Cyril kept going. “Father with an asshole so tight he needed an enema to take a shit, son who routinely takes it up the ass, and daughter who spread her legs for …”

The sharp crack of hand meeting flesh cut off the flow of words. Pauline dropped her hand to her lap and said to Smollman, “Please continue.”

“Yes, well, we’re almost finished.” Smollman searched for his place on the page. “Ah, here we are. To Cyril Montague Daniels Martin, I leave two hundred, twenty-seven dollars, and forty-three cents, the cost of a taxi from Albany, New York to Boston. You are to receive nothing else from my estate, not a single penny more. Not a bowl or a knife or a piece of paper will leave this house with you. If you try to contest the will, certain documents will be released to the District Attorney’s office in Las Vegas, Nevada and your Aunt Augusta Rawlins.”

The color drained from Cyril’s face; he jumped up, stomped a foot, and raised a fist. “Son-of-a-bitch can’t do this. He promised. I paid him what he wanted. I will not be bullied, isn’t that right, Pauline? You said you’d handled this.”

“I did.” She glanced up at her husband, completely composed. “Gerard has the papers prepared; when the divorce is final, I’ll give you father’s files. Only then.”

“Goddamn family! I should have known better than to get mixed up with you lot.” Cyril towered over Pauline. “You and your obsession with being a good girl. I could ruin you, you know, tell everyone how ‘close’ you were to the General, why he never remarried. They’d believe me.”

“Mr. Barton.” Pauline’s voice never waivered. “Would you mind showing Cyril to the door? He’s done here.”

“My pleasure.”

All it took was three steps and Cyril, panic setting in as he looked at Clint’s face, backed away willingly, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Thank you,” Pauline said as Clint sat down. “If you would, Gerard.”

“And, finally, to my daughter, Pauline Charlotte Morgan Coulson, I leave the rest of my estate -- The house on Martha’s Vineyard, the town home in Boston, the flat in London -- in its entirety. It’s my wish that she does with it as she wants and, above all, is happy. For putting up with a grumpy old widower, you deserve it, Paulie.”

A quiet sigh was heard in the silence that followed. Pauline clenched her hands into her skirt then let them go.

“That’s the end of it.” Smollman put away the papers. “If you have any questions or need anything further, don’t hesitate to call. It’s pretty straightforward … the General dotted every I and crossed every T … but I’m here if you need me.”

“Thank you.” Phil stood and offered his hand. “We appreciate the work you’ve done.”

Turning, he faced his sister. “Paulie. I …”

“Nothing that happened here today has changed anything.” She drew herself up, her height matching his. “They are your children. Take them and raise them as you want.”

“That’s not …” Phil paused, took a breath then kept going. “If you need anything, anything at all, call me. We’re still family; if Cyril gives you trouble …”

“I can handle him. I can handle everything. I don’t need anyone.”

“Yeah, I know that.” Phil’s face softened. “But you don’t have to handle it alone.”

The tiniest rise of her shoulders, a slow blink … Pauline almost broke but then coldness back in place. “Thank you for the offer, but I won’t be calling. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

By unspoken accord, they didn’t talk about it as they rounded up the kids and loaded the chest in the car. They stopped at Larsen’s Fish Market for dinner, fish and chips for the kids and lobster rolls for the adults. Then a walk along the shore before the short drive to the private airstrip and the short hop home on a SI plane in time to put the kids to bed at the usual hour. Only then, when Phil was hanging his suit in the closet, did Clint pull the chest up to the end of the bed and take the small box in his hands, turning it over to examine all sides.

“My Grandmother Morgan was an interesting woman,” Phil said, crossing the room and settling next Clint, the mattress dipping under his weight. “High society matriarch, in jewels and beaded dresses, that’s how she is in all the pictures. But I remember her making shortbread cookies, apron covered in flour. She told bedtime stories of Scotland, Lairds and ladies and battles, a Morgan at the center.”

He took the key and opened the lock, raising the lid slowly. Inside was a beige envelope and another key, heavier, more ornate. He took out the single sheet of paper.

“Dear Caroline.”

Phil stopped and choked back a sob. Lowering his head, his shoulders began to shake. Clint didn’t hesitate, wrapping his arms around his husband and hugging him tight. He gently removed the black frames and set Phil’s glasses aside before he buried his nose in Phil’s hair and let him cry. Tears gathered at the corners of his own eyes, useless frustration at all the lost possibilities and pain caused by one man’s inability to bend. Pauline’s lost love. Caroline’s missing father. Abandoning Phil and Bella and Josh. Manipulations after manipulation that did nothing but harm.

After only a few minutes, Phil pulled himself together, drying his eyes on Clint’s soft t-shirt.

“Goddamn man isn’t worth it,” Phil grumbled, taking up the letter and starting again.

“Dear Caroline,

As I write this, you are tossing the ball for Mimi then racing her to find it in the backyard. So full of energy, my summer child, already showing the signs of what is to come, your gift near the surface, waiting for the right time to emerge. How I wish I could watch you grow, be by your side during the darkness ahead, but my days are shortening, my time done and yours yet to begin. I cannot see clearly your future; black clouds swirl between now and then, and I fear for you, my dearest great-grandchild. And yet, I have hope; two bright beams of light are beyond, the strongest of us all. The Morgan clan will survive and be crucial, I’ve been assured. To that end, I have collected the entirety of our family’s secret history in a vault; this key will open the door to all our knowledge of our gifts and the future.

On the chance that the reader is not Caroline Coulson, I have left instructions for any Morgan descendent with gifts to be given the key. Events grow blurry and I worry about Pauline’s husband and his influence. Whoever you are, if Philip J. Coulson is still alive, seek him out; he will help. You can trust his unwavering soul.

Yours truly,

R. Gertrude Morgan.”

Phil put the letter down.

“I had no idea,” he murmured.

“Seems to be the point, doesn’t it? Keeping the mutant gene quiet, like we’re doing now?” Clint picked up the key. “There’s a Philly address on the tag. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“Two beams of light.” Phil’s smile was bittersweet. “And she trusted me to help them.”

“She was right. Bella and Josh couldn’t be in better hands. Unwavering. That’s you.” Clint kissed him on the jaw. “Or stubborn-as-hell. Both are good.”

“Open your box.” Phil nudged him with his shoulder. “I think I know what’s in it.”

“Oh, you do?” Clint broke the seal and popped the lid off; inside was a micro usb drive. “Want to voice your prediction?”

“Nope.” Phil watched as Clint leaned back and put the drive on the contact pad.

“Fine, be that way.” Clint dropped back on the bed. “Jarvis, scan for viruses or booby traps then upload.”

“Done, Agent Barton. Shall I display the files?”

“Please.”

Folders appeared in the air, each labeled and numbered. Clint clicked on the oldest first and found Harold and Edith Barton’s marriage license, both his and Barney’s birth certifications, police calls for domestic violence, and the whole report from his parent’s accident and deaths.

“Holy hell.”

He swiped through more -- intakes for orphanages, foster care placements, social worker’s notes -- and even more -- interviews with employees of Carson’s Traveling Wonders, police reports of break-ins, medical files of one seventeen-year-old Clint Barton’s admission for a gunshot wound. The black and white pictures Barney tried to sell him and a few video files. Army evaluations, international reports, even some from the CIA and Interpol.

“Jesus, I don’t even remember half this shit.”

“The General was nothing if not thorough.” Phil ran a comforting hand along his leg. “Doesn’t surprise me he had a detailed file on you.”

“Well, there are SHIELD files in here.” Clint opened his first op evaluation. “Barton does not play well with others. His anger is going to get someone killed when he explodes.”

“Davis was an idiot.”

“Good God, there’s a complete rundown of Budapest. I thought Fury burned that file.”

Maps, detailed attack plans, a picture of Natasha on the street.

“He did.” Phil cocked his head and studied the angle. “That’s from a different vantage point.”

Operations all over the world, catalogued and organized, ran all the way up to the 2000s.

“What’s that?” Phil pointed at a separate folder at the bottom of the screen. “Is that …”

He clicked it and images of a man in black and gold, silver gleaming katanas crossed over his back filled the air.

“You’re Ronin?” Phil’s eyes widened.

“That was a long time ago.” Clint pointed to the date on the last image. “Before you were my handler, long before Strike Team Delta.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Phil asked. “No, wait. Don’t answer that. We agreed that the past stays the past. As long as you’re not …”

“I’m not, not now and not ever again. I had my reasons, trust me, but it’s all behind me,” he assured.

“Never say never again.” Phil’s smile returned. “Might have need of an alternative identity someday then we’ll have a ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ conversation.”

“Wait.” Clint sat up. “You have another? Phil?”

“Oh, look, here’s our wedding. That’s a good pic.”

Clint accepted the change of topic; Phil could be pulling his leg or telling the truth, but he was right. They’d long since come to terms with eruptions of the past; they’d deal when it happened.

“The kids too, and the house. Maggie. Every Avengers outing, complete with multiple videos. Thorough is right.”

A small folded note fell out of the box as Clint went to pitch it in the trash. “This is the only copy,” it read.

“The General had amazing resources,” Clint said.

“He did.” Phil paused long enough that the silence grew awkward. “Okay, let’s do this.”

He didn’t bother to find an opener or a knife; Phil ripped off one end of the envelope and took out the folded letter. Tucked inside was a slim piece of grey plastic the size of a credit card with a line drawing of a wolf in the center. Only a series of numbers and letters was handwritten on the paper.

“Looks like a keycard,” Clint offered. “Maybe those are a password for a safe or something?”

“If I may, sirs?” Jarvis asked. “I believe that is a very old code, one broken by the Venona system.”

“What does it say?” Phil asked.

“28 State Street, 17PR53NF69PC18, 5 + 3, 308,.”

“Well, that’s helpful.” Clint squinted at the letters and numbers floating in the air.

“Actually, it makes perfect sense if you know the General was obsessed with the American Revolution; his townhouse was where James Otis wrote most of his pamphlets. 28th State Street is across from the Old State House. 5 +3 references the Boston Massacre that happened just down the block,” Phil explained.

“The building at 28 State Street is currently owned by a large bank; 308 is an office leased by the Hargrove Able Company.” Jarvis projected a photo of a blank door with a small sign that held just the three numbers beside it. “Do you want me to run a background on the company?”

“Yes, but hold the results until the morning. We’re in no hurry.” Phil put aside the card and letter. “It can wait another day.”

“Seriously? I saw we break Lola out of the garage and make a late night road trip.” Clint laughed when Phil rolled on top of him, catching his hands and wrapping his wrists with strong fingers. “Bet we can find a little B&B in Old Town, grab some cannolis at Mike’s …”

A light brush of lips then Phil said, “I have other plans for tonight. Perverse, sinful plans, the best kind of plans.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” Clint bumped his hips with Phil’s. “I’m onboard for kinky, babe.”

Phil pushed up on an elbow, face serious. “You are one of the best things in my life. I just want to make sure you know that.”

“I’d be upset to be downgraded to one of the best, but I know who the others are,” Clint said. “I love you too …” he wiggled his eyebrows, “sir.”

“Oh, that’s how it’s going to be?”

“Indeed. Bring it on.”

Three days later, Phil opened the door to office 308 with the keycard and let them inside. Barely any furniture, no blinds, just a couple of filing cabinets were in the first area. The two smaller rooms were equally empty, a cobweb in the corner of the one small bathroom and a broken microwave in the break area.

“Something’s off,” Clint said, pacing along the countertop and stopping in front of the unplugged fridge. “The blueprints say this wall is straight.”

Finding secret doors used take time and careful searches; with Jarvis on his phone, it only took two minutes to open the lock and expose the keys below. Phil tapped in the numbers and letters and an elevator door was revealed with no buttons to push and only two stops on the display. It zipped downward and let them out into a concrete bunker where Phil used the keycard on another lock.

Clint wasn’t sure what he expected, but a simple rectangular office wasn’t it. Cheap metal desks, plastic chairs, a few broken, metal inboxes gave an early 70s vibe. Only the computers, brand new, and wall of flat screens gave no clue that it was the 21st Century outside.

“Any ideas?” Clint asked as he roamed around the space, opening random file drawers and poking his head through the two doors. “I mean this is very cloak and dagger, but if it’s just the General’s old office, I’m going to be …”

“Clint.”

A stripe on a desk matched the glow of the keycard in Phil’s hand; when he swiped it through the light, screens flickered on and the General’s face appeared.

“Philip. Everything’s keyed to your biometrics; the card’s a one time access. You’ll need to enter new passwords and reset the system. I’ve left instructions buried in the files I gave to Barton; figured you two were a package deal, so I added him to the approved list.”

“Package deal,” Clint huffed.

“This is why I wanted you to follow me into the military,” the General continued. “I couldn’t explain, and you’ll understand why. Irony, eh, that Marcus decided to change is name; if only he’d known. Maybe it was meant to be that way; you’ve got enough to do, wrangling superheroes and saving the world. Still, you’d have made a damn fine Nick Fury; hell, you’ve been preparing your whole life, reading everything you could get your hands on about the Howling Commandos and idolizing Captain America. Moot point, yeah, but here we are.”

Cap? Nick Fury? Howling Commandos? Clint glanced at Phil, unable to guess where this was going.

“Anyway, here’s the gist of it. When the Strategic Scientific Reserves was founded, the World War II Nick Fury refused to be part of it; he was a stubborn cuss, the ninth to take that name and bound and determined not to be the last. So he went underground, working within the SSR without being part of it. When the SSR became SHIELD, so, too, did Nick Fury continue to exist. My tenure began in 1965 and I carried on through the Cold War and the fall of the Berlin Wall. The current Fury will be contacting you shortly; your entrance here won’t go unnoticed..”

“Holy shit,” Clint said.

“It’s all here -- operatives, intelligence, information -- and you’re going to need it, son. HYDRA is doing what it does best, growing, changing. That attack in the park was just the beginning of a campaign of terror. There’s too many disaffected youths out there, angry people who feel lost and left behind by the changes in the world. Won’t be hard to stir them up, turn them into an army. Chaos, that’s what they’re aiming for and SHIELD, the Avengers, and the others have played right into their hands. Resentment, pure and simple. Fear of powered individuals.”

“Oh my God,” Phil breathed.

“It’s coming, Phil. Trask Industries is already working with Justin Hammer on ways to contain superpowered individuals. Senator Stern is holding closed hearings on what to do about superheroes. The Watchdogs are building chapters all over the world. Tell Sargeant Fury that it’s time to stop watching and get involved.”

The screens flickered.

“The storm is here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Glen Talbot here is the comicbook version, not the one in Agents of SHIELD. He worked with General Ross, met and married Betty after the whole "Bruce turned into a Hulk" thing. 
> 
> Had to get a Ronin mention in here!
> 
> Sgt. Nick Fury and the Howling Commandos appeared long before the MCU; I'm drawing on the comicbooks where Fury doesn't work for the SSR/SHIELD at the beginning. The second run puts Fury in the Cold War, the perfect span of time for the General to hold the title. The whole conceit of a title passing from person-to-person and keeping it secret is my own.
> 
> As to the recent events mentioned at the very end, the attack in the park takes places in "It's a Dog's Life." Trask Industries is from the X-men ... if you've seen Days of Future Past, you'll remember Peter Dinklage playing Trask, the guy who creates the Sentinels which are part of the mutant registration act. Justin Hammer is Tony's nemesis in Iron Man 2 and the comics. Senator Stern is from Winter Soldier and the Iron Man movies, the HYDRA planted Senator who questions Tony about the suit. And the Watchdogs are from Agents of SHIELD, an anti-mutant of angry people who fear powered individuals. 
> 
> got to love fanfic and the ability to draw from whatever source I want. :)


End file.
